


Does John Know Its Christmastime, At All?

by Pink_and_Velvet



Series: Hold Tight, Onto Daddy’s Bracelets [6]
Category: Duran Duran, The Power Station (Band)
Genre: A Christmas Carol, A/B/O verse, Abandonment, Alternate Universe, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Babies, Band Aid 84, Band Reunion, Break Downs, Christmas Dinner, Christmas Eve, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Ghosts, Loneliness, M/M, Magic, Multi, New York, Presents, Reveals, Rock and Roll, Singing, Snow and Ice, Spirits, Winter, christmas day, serenades
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:28:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28220169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pink_and_Velvet/pseuds/Pink_and_Velvet
Summary: Christmas 1984: No one in The Waldorf’s stirring, not even a mouse.John thought he was alone for Christmas, abandoned even. There is no reason to be merry, to feel any Christmas cheer.He has never been more wrong.
Relationships: Andy Taylor/John Taylor (Duran Duran), Andy Taylor/Tracey Taylor, Simon Le Bon/John Taylor (Duran Duran)
Series: Hold Tight, Onto Daddy’s Bracelets [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1573288
Comments: 3
Kudos: 14





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I’m back with yet another Christmas story. Though this is it for the year, I promise!! 
> 
> I’m oddly proud of this one. I hope you enjoy it too. There are five chapters and will be updated over the coming week, right before the 31st.
> 
> This fic slots into the _We Danced Into The Fire _84/85 canon, along with my other Band Aid story previously. Treat this as though it’s the missing link almost, between beginning The Power Station till John’s very memorable New Years Day.__

_The Taylor Penthouse, New York_

_Christmas Eve, 1984_

Standing solemn beside their entryway rotunda, amongst the marble statues and oil paintings, John’s shielded gaze followed that of the guitarist. Apologetic, he motioned to their penthouse door with his bags in hand. Unapologetic, putting on his best brave smile, John watched Andy go. His pint-sized, craze axe man had longed to return home to Tracey, to his bouncing baby boy Andrew, who John couldn’t believe was already almost four months old.

John felt for the three Wilson-Taylors, he really did. A heavy guilt weighed on his shoulders, plagued on his mind; at keeping Andy away from his wife and son for his own personal gain. At keeping him here, thousands of miles and an ocean away, so John could keep working. Could keep himself distracted, driven, unaware of what was to come.

Nothing petrified the bassist more than the unknown, the uncertainty. Or loneliness. December has been crazy busy: from Christmas _Top Of The Pops_ to the infamous Duran VS Spandau _Pop Quiz_ special to straight up starting a record on their own. Manic. The end to 1984 had been manic, a real wild boy ride. However, he knew, grip slipping from the door frame as he shut it, he had to let Andy go.

Let him have a break.

John couldn’t keep him away from his family for the festive season. And Roger, who thankfully would be joining their Taylor bubble to record soon enough, he would be arriving after Christmas. He deserved to spend his first Christmas with his new bride Giovanna at home, celebrating in peace.

Unfortunately, John himself struggled with that, letting go, thanks to his jet-setting ways. He’d already met his limited days on home soil this year, his taxes were through the roof. Which unfortunately meant that Jean and Jacko wouldn’t be seeing him this Christmas, they didn’t want to fly out to him. John couldn’t fly out to them.

He would rather have the pain of spending Christmas alone, holed away in his Waldorf palace like Rapunzel wanting to let down his shaggy mullet for his Prince to climb, then cough up another six figure cheque for the Tory scum.

He couldn’t delude himself further. No man was coming to save the Prince of Hollywood in the tower, from himself this time.

Slinking through the grand Taylor sanctuary, John kept his stern gaze on the cream marble floors. On the rugged carpets, embroidered with such care that he tread in snow and it didn’t matter to him. He pointedly ignored the world outside his window, that world which didn’t understand John’s _dread and fear._ He pointedly ignored their endless Christmas trees and decorations, ruby and golden baubles which glistened in muted decadence. The endless line of firs enveloped by velvet vermillion bows and twinkling amber fairy lights. The heated glow, the homely feel, were supposed to thaw John’s heart and not freeze it further.

He was supposed to raise a glass for everyone, underneath that burning sun.

John only slinked away further, with a complete disregard for the festive spirit which surrounded him. It was choking him, he was sure, he was being suffocated by a want to be merry; by a need to hear those bells jingle and to ride that sleigh.

He slammed his bedroom door shut, locking it, with a heavy sigh.

The bassist was no Scrooge. He never had been, he hoped that he never would be. However, it was clear to himself, that no matter how he tried to numb his pain; he couldn’t shake the feeling of his loneliness. His ‘bah,’ his ‘humbug.’ Of his weary lonesome self endlessly roaming the corridors of _The Waldorf,_ roaming Wall Street in the slushy snow that lapped at his ankles and caused him to either skid or sink. He had never felt so forgotten, so outcast.

Without his helpers, his delightfully crumbly white sensation, John queried anyone and everyone as to why that was. Had he been a naughty boy this year? Was Santa yet to check him twice? He could’ve sworn he had been rather nice, though he could indeed understand if the world thought him naughty.

He huffed and puffed as he slid his studded belts from their loops, chucking them to the floor. He huffed as he threw his heavy body onto the silken sheets, in his newly adorned monochrome shirt with the check print and high collar, collapsing like a sack of potatoes. He hoped the silk would bring a warmth, a familiarity, as he found his bangle-clad wrist to be clutching ever so tight to them: his safe haven. Leonard too, his cuddly toy lion was awaiting him, seemingly disappointed to have John join his silver so blue. He didn’t sing.

John tossed his glasses to the bedside table, deciding he would much rather go into this blind. His celebration, his ghost of Christmas… something, coming to visit him. His ghost of Marley, perhaps, a band member come and gone. Or one ghost from their future who could simply tell him whether he’ll make it through this decade alive. _Wearing the chains, he’s forged in life_ or not, shackled away in his grave.

Any life, any cheer that Nigel had felt as a child at Christmastime had seemingly deluded John. Alluded him, flooded his body so. Perhaps this year to save himself from tears, John did not need to celebrate with anyone special. That was safer, for all involved.

Dismissing the thought, John stuffed his and Leonard’s poor face into the pillows; determined to sleep Christmas Eve away and to do the same on Christmas Day. He really was _as dead as a doornail – you know, Dickens -_ in the haze between sleep and dream.


	2. Chapter 2

He awoke, seemingly he hadn’t been visited by any ghosts. Nobody living or not quite so living, had appeared wanting to know him. Surely it was well into the dead of night with Christmas morning a _dust cloud on the rise_. John blindly searched for his glasses, sighing in relief when he put them on… black. The only source of light flowed its way in intrusively, through a minor gap in the drawn velvet curtains. Moonlight, glistening silver, painted John’s body a ghostly shade atop of those silken sheets.

John arose to seated, groggily, feeling a prick in his stomach. He shot up, dashed to the bathroom to heave; thankful that he made it in time. He was sweating now, a light sheen forming on his forehead, panting softly as he flushed the toilet a final time.

John had assumed for hours that he was alone for Christmas, days even. Though by standing in his bathroom, facing a wobbly reflection in the antique golden mirror, John simply was reminded that he wasn’t. Of course, _you bloody moron!_ He wasn’t alone. That little body deep inside of him was thriving, swimming, growing just that teeny bit more every day. Throwing up reminded him of that, it was rather ironic. John forced a smile too lop-sided for his liking, but it was a step in the right direction. The smallest of progressions.

Ripping himself away from his reflection, John found himself fumbling his way back into the connected bedroom. Through to the hallway, the circular rotunda which led him out the apartment door. Here, thankfully, a golden light was shining; he could somewhat see.

Each door was shut bar the one he had just entered through. The front door hadn’t been touched either and yet: scared of flying? _No._ Cos’ here we come…  
  


_What’s that?_

White light was homing in, drawing John in. He found himself crouching before the door, shocked, to see a box before it. It had been shipped overseas, it seemed, with his name and address that he hadn’t yet given out to a soul inscribed on the parcel. With a shaky hand and deep breath, he pawed at the box, drawing away quick like a jungle cat. It simply sat there, taunting him.

He blinked rapid. Rubbed his eyes. Nope, it didn’t vanish. The parcel was still there.

John cocked his head, thoroughly confused. He had knocked himself out like a light, had surely slept for hours. No one had dared knocked on his door, no one had chanced entry.

If he could hear, maybe a tinkly tune was sounding. A bell, a chime. A magical glisten, of music, perhaps. A twinkle of lights, of glitter.

And no, he’s not stoned… right?

Curiosity beginning to outweigh the fear, John picked up the box with a grunt, slumping through heavy door after door to his grand living room. Flicking on the bright light, he deposited the parcel atop the sofa winded. He winced, a small pain shooting through his lower back: he really shouldn’t be lifting heavy things in his condition! John immediately apologised to his peanut, feeling them swimming with more vibrant strokes within him.

_Huh, strange._

Thankfully, that swimming was stabilising. He found his pulse beginning to settle.  
  


Sitting unnerved beside the parcel, John debated whether to open it. Scissors at the ready, he cut his way through only to unveil another wrapped box, in silver and blue. He frowned. Cocked a brow. Pouted. Frowned deeper.

“Do _you_ know it’s Christmastime, at all?” He recited the tag, his name glimmered in silver ink. _The hell?_

Mumbling along, a quivering finger slipped its way under the frosty paper. John took his time, heart beginning to speed up and sweat forming on his face. He tried _let in light and banish shade,_ to cling to consciousness by muttering, then full out throaty singing, reciting the _Band Aid_ lyrics as they came to him. Their song had been on the radio nonstop, the single firmly sitting at the number one spot back home. He couldn’t avoid the tune no matter how hard he tried.

Unwrapping the final piece, a wayward silver bow falling into his lap, John lay there stunned. His nimble fingers trembled as they lurched forward, holding the reel. It was a tape, unfinished and unrefined. It was a demo tape, he assumed, having no recollection as to what song was on there. What track would become the song to his Christmas. In his _world of dread and fear._

Having the latest technology prevailed, he could play it. Without warning, John was bombarded by a voice, by chimes, by harmonies and a thrumming bassline. His bassline.

**There’s a wo-orled ow-wout-side your window-ow— higher? Yep… can we… try it again?**

John’s ears pricked up.

**Christ man, focus! I can’t hear a damn thing…**

He blinked.

**Hey-hey! Johnny, stop laughin’ at me!**

His mouth dropped open.

**And again, from the top. Go!**

His shoulders pricked.

**There’s a wo-orld owt-side your win-dow-ow. And it’s a wo-horld oh-of dread an’ fear…**

A single, hot tear trailed its way down his cheek.

He rewound the tape. Hearing a range of voices and other sounds, though there’s one vocal that sticks out.

John broke out into his _bitter of sting of tears,_ like the track told him too. His eyes were red raw, breath beginning to stutter and hitch. His body was shaking, he was slumping over beside the tape; letting those shrill voices fill his ears and sweep him away.  
  


**Well, that take was shockin.’ Biggest band in the world, eh, Le Bon?**

**Oi Bob, watch it!**

John blurted, dropping to his knees. “The greatest gift we’d get this year is _life,_ huh? _Christ Almighty!_ ”

The tape was right before him. He couldn’t look at it. He didn’t want too. John didn’t try.

“The hell did you send me this?!” He wondered aloud, yelling.

**Can somebody… get John out of here so I can focus! God!**

“You thought I’d freakin’ want to here more of you?!” _All I want is you._

**Baby, piss off! Once more from the top…**

John yanked the tape from the deck, immediately dropping it. It was hot to the touch, burning his palm. His bottom lip was still trembling, eyes blearing over with his tears. Within moments, John was up on his feet. His heel slammed into the tape, repeating kicking it, abusing it; jumping atop of the tape so all that were left were the tiny splinters of vocals. A hitch of breath, a tattered recording.

He kicked the remnants of tape straight under the sofa, before plonking himself down atop it. John found himself wailing, crying like a pathetic little girl, stomach twisting and head a mess. Surely that wasn’t the intention of his gift, voices were set to be savoured and persevered. Not clawing at his poor heart, twisting it.

“Si—” With a heavy heart, John forced down another wave of tears.

John named and shamed himself, vowing to never ask about it. Ask about the intention, the need to send such a thing to him. He vowed to never ask about it, he couldn’t even sit on that sofa any longer knowing it was right there. Tattered, scratched, his ghost of a Christmas present was still there.


	3. Chapter 3

John spent most of the morning of the twenty-fifth in bed. Miraculously he did brush his teeth though soaking in his regal black marble bathtub then shaving was a stretch. He didn’t bother changing. The bassist found himself enrapt deep within his thoughts, they thrashed about in his head to knock him off course. His best friend and best road trip pal, Leonard, was always first to get the juicy gossip.

John found himself confiding in his stuffed lion, reflecting on his year whilst balancing the fuzzy little toy on his chest. This year, his only Christmas cheer came from that of his toy, and a call to his mother Jean. They were near inseparable, John always longed to hug her. He made a note to send her another postcard, always signed with three kisses.

“Not much… it’s still early and there ain’t much to do…”

“Nah. I bought Andy and his wife a gift—”

“Nick? No, n-no… He ain’t got this number, no…”

“Rog? He’ll be here in a couple nights. Can’t wait to have him. I think he’ll make the record; you know?”

“Who? Oh… oh _Simon_. Oh. Yeah, uh, y’know mummy, about that… He and his brothers split between their parents…” _He was meant to be celebrating with his fiancé— ex fiancé._

John’s voice ground to an abrupt halt. Suddenly, he didn’t feel like talking anymore.

_War Is Over, John, if you want it, right?_

Having spoken to Jean persuaded John to change. To get out of the penthouse, to do something with his day. She really was a special soul, sounding weary of his lonesome self as she bid her son farewell. John really hoped that his gift to his parents made it there in time, he was sure his father would adore his brand new Mercedes with a huge gaudy but festive golden bow on the windshield.

With a shiver, John dressed in his woven cream scarf that his mother had lovingly knit for him, and leather blue gloves. A thick coat, another layer to cover his stomach for good measure and dashed out of the penthouse. Down in the lift, nodding curtly to those unlucky sods who had to serve him on Christmas Day.

Immediately he was faced with the blizzard, snowflakes whirling and winds threatening to knock him off his block. He didn’t seem to mind - _nothing could be colder than inside alone_ \- wrapping himself up tight. John found himself roaming endlessly up and down Wall Street, trudging through the thick blanket of snow, really wishing Leonard were with him for the company.

He momentarily cast his mind back to the Turkey dinner for one, raring to go in the oven. Shaking his head, feeling his peanut swirl, he decided against it. There was no need, no Taylor fairytale to write in New York. He didn’t really deserve it, he supposed, celebrating pathetically with a gob full of roasties on his own.

All through his journey, his ploughing through the white, he had subconsciously been narrating the scene. As if to introduce his little miracle to New York, to himself. John pointed out the sights as he passed them, topped with a fine white sheen, John motioned to the ice rink and closed stores. Cocking up a lip ever so slightly, he had made it all the way to the Rockefeller Centre Christmas tree intact. He couldn’t help but brandish a small smile, knowing these streets were typically alight with feeling and movement, pedestrians too manic to stop and enjoy those lights. The scene, the aura created by such a breathtaking decoration.

For once in John’s fast paced, ever changing life, he stopped to smell the roses. Or, the faint whiff of cinnamon, admiring the tree’s gleaming amber lights from a nearby bench. John’s voice was soft, fond, motioning to the tree for his ever growing stomach to see. He wondered momentarily, before continuing his travels, if his child would come to love Christmas too. Whether his little Wild Boy or Girl could inject that festive feeling back into him. Dreams of Santa, dreams of snow with his numb face glowing red.

“My little Christmas _miracle_... woah.” John breathed, bidding Rockefeller Centre a final goodbye for the year.

He was again bombarded by the heavy snow, perhaps a storm was coming. John shivered bodily, throwing a hand up over his eyes in hopes that he could see. The trek was growing harder, the snow thickening before his very eyes. The gust of wind, a chime, past his ears almost made him miss the bleary voice which called out to him.

“Hey, hey you.”

Then the other.

“Can you spare us a dime? A dollar? Surely a man such as you can afford it, eh?”  
  


John pivoted around, face flushing. He was now faced with two bums, huddled in tight underneath a ledge. Their hole was covered in snow, the two of them were frightened and shivering; and yet neither seemed to give a toss as to who they were dealing with.

“Yeah! Feed the woooo—oerer—orrlld!”

His lips parted, ready for a retort.

“Call us, Ignorance and Want!” The man cackled, turning breathless as he coughed heavily.

The woman followed, a hand on his back trying to stop his coughing. John could only stare, rudely stare.

“Oi, you gonna help us or just gawk?” She, umm _Want_ spat, grubby fingertips cocked John’s way.

The bassist simply shrugged.

There wasn’t much of Want, nor of Ignorance for that matter. Two terribly thin bodies, trembling over a thick shared coat. Shared blankets with holes, mittens with holes, and a hood which had seen better days.

John pat down his puffy coat, knowing there wasn’t any money nearby. He hadn’t bought his wallet, no shops were open and besides, what would he need it for?

“Hey, you carry on. Back to your ivory tower, you miser!” Ignorance yelled, ushering John away. “No worries ‘bout puttin’ anyone else first, before yourself yeah?” He scoffed.

John turned from them, blizzard spiralling all around him. Voices and other sounds told him to feel for his back pocket, raspy tones coaxing his hand down.  
  


“Yeah, that’s it, you miser!”

John jumped as he felt it. There was a tenner in there.

“Oh, look at that. Someone’s got it made!” Want taunted, still huddled away in their shared coat.

John brandished another ten dollars, out of nowhere. With the tone of the jingle bell, a small grin swept his face. The icicles dangling from both of their noses were quick to melt away, as both bastard faces grew soft. Grew somber, as John handed over the dosh, he could’ve sworn he didn’t have.

Both gazed up at him in gratitude, in solidarity. “On me. Why don’t you go to a shelter, get some Christmas dinner?” John posed voice small. The bassist too was stunned by his actions.

The two bums looked at eachother, nodding. They both dashed to their feet, with a new lease of life in their step. A spring, John had helped to put there.

“Oh, thank you. Thank you, thank you!” Want chortled, harsh voice no more. “See, feels good doin’ sommet for those less well off, huh?” John tried not to feel any pride, poorly tried. “Let’s get outta ‘ere, find a shelter or whatnot.”

Ignorance’s bony body followed her to her feet, both ready to trail through the harsh New York snow. John turned on his heel, shoving his hands back into his pockets, more than a little surprised by his act of good will.

“Oh right. Merry Christmas Ebeneezer! Thanks for the tuppence.”

_Tuppence? I’ve gave you twenty—_

“You’ll make a great parent! Look after ‘em, put them first and think ‘bout the poor paying those cheques!” Both cheered, voices hazy when riding the harsh wind.

“You what? What’ll twenty bucks get ya’s?” John jibed, spinning around to face them.

A scoff, “that means the world to some people.”

“Wa-wait, what?”

_Flash!_

No one in New York was stirring, not even a mouse. Or rat from the sewer.

“What the… ‘Ello?” He called, looking high and low for any sight of them. There were no footprints, only names riding on the wind. “Ummm ‘ello? Twats? How stoned am I?!”

As if like magic, the throaty voice of Want came flooding back. “You’re not. Keep offa that.”

“Holy fuck?!” John spat.

“Smile! You miser.”

With a wave of the magic wand, a poof, Want was gone. Well and truly, this time.

John decided to dash out of there, figuring that he’d never quite be able to forget that… whatever the hell that Dickens-style warning was. He wasn’t so sure that he wanted too, either. A small smile was tugging at his lips.

John let that smile overtake him, that small feeling of pride overtaking the fear.


	4. Chapter 4

He continued his way back up to _The Waldorf,_ muttering pick and mix verses to the _Wham!_ smash hit ‘Last Christmas.’ His mind momentarily flashed up that photoshoot, he had found himself doubling over in laughter at seeing his good friends George and Andrew so decked out for the holidays. Then, perhaps he had laughed even harder, the two had been unceremoniously robbed of the Christmas number one… by themselves.

_Well George, you know what I mean!_

“What are the odds of that? Havin’ the same singer keep himself off the top spot for Christmas, with the biggest selling British single _ever_?! Christ, baby.” It was unheard of, absolute insanity. “You know, if that singer was Si—” John stopped, skidding on a thick patch of black ice. “Fuck!” He sniggered, in a heap on the ground.

Picking himself up, poorly, he arose to standing. _To hell with it,_ there was no one to watch. The snow crunched under his boots, he slipped about a little more. Then the bassist was practically glowing, skating his way through the snow laden streets, a dopey smile painting his face, cheeks flushed a delightful shade of cranberry.

He was greeted by the bellboy, absentmindedly singing alongside Andy Williams. John waved to them, smiling, John was almost bouncing. Having simply gotten out, embracing the festive breeze, seemed to have done him a whirlwind of good. He glided over to the lift, bowing before the cleaner lady, then another chef.

They sent a weary look to each-other, having never seen him so smiley. Acknowledging their existence.

“Hey! It’s Christ—” he inhaled a shaky breath, ready to let rip. Noddy Holder style. “— _Maaaaaaas!_ ”

John waved to those who joined him in the lift. He stuck up a quick conversation with the bellboy on his floor. He found himself admiring the baubles and wreaths that decorated the corridors, almost forcing the happiness.  
  


_That’s Mummy for you, knowing what you needed. And two creepy paupers on the street…_

“It’s the most wonderful time of the year, and ya’s spendin’ it holed away up here!” He joyfully barked out, shoving his key in the lock. “It’s the most wonderful time of the year!”

John was singing, heart glowing, sashaying through his penthouse towards the kitchen—

“Holy fuckin’ Christ!”

“Good Lord, we were won’drin’ if you’d ever show up! The hell have you been?”

His jaw dropped open. Had he fallen and frozen to death in the snow? Surely an act of true love could thaw his frozen heart, right? Is that what this was?

_Sure I’m dreaming._

“Hey, hey—”

_Did I OD on—_

“Tigger!”

He was immediately ambushed. Picked up. Swirled. Dropped with a huff, manic laughter, and a huff.

John rubbed at his eyes. Shook his head. Pinched himself.

_Holy shit._

“It’s really, it’s really you?” He was astonished, heart in his throat.

“‘Step Into Christmas’ with _we,_ yeah!”

“Andy!”

John was met with the merry laughter of his guitarist, thick Newcastle tones ringing in his cheer. “Yeah, you moron. Do you really think we would’ve left you alone for Christmas Day?” Before John had the chance to answer, he continued. Pulse surely rabbiting, Andy grabbed John’s still gloved hand. “Course not!”

_The admission’s… free-ish._

“Wait, _we_?!”

As if on cue, the angel fluttered her way into the room. With bright light eyes, flowing blonde locks and a dashing smile painting her peach lips.

“Yes Tigger,” she broke off with a giggle. “ _We_.”

“Trace!” John practically leapt at her, hoisting her into the air.

There was a cough from Andy, John put his wife down.

“Ah, shit!” He doubled over, laughing, there was that back pain again.

“Christ Jet Set!”

He could practically hear Andy’s smirk from behind him. The guitarist was at his back, reaching a hand down to the exact spot of foetus induced trauma. John straightened up, a bell sounding, puzzled. He turned back to face his fellow Taylor, who was smirking at him.

“A little warmth down there will always help, you big lug.”

“Ha! Wait what?”

Both sets of Taylor eyes widened comically, much to Tracey’s confusion. Their knowing gazes locked, John’s face suddenly growing pale.

Andy’s sudden bark of laughter knocked him out of daze. “No worries babe, he’ll tell you at dinner.”

“That I… you what?! Dinner?”

Andy simply smirked, motioning to the open kitchen door. John sniffed, his face growing hot as the colour returned to it. His cheeky cheeky Nigel grin was sweeping across his flushed face, as he removed his coat and scarf, never quite taking his eyes off Tracey the whole time. She was glowing, that was the glow of a new mother. John was sure she was radiating pride and protection.

He hadn’t even noticed that Andy had dashed off, now he was left with his wife. He immediately sent his gaze to his feet, cheeks flushing and tears pricking at his eyelids. Happy tears, happy tears only.

“Come on John, dinner is almost ready. Would you mind helping me set the table?” She posed, obscenely polite.

John cocked a brow, surely, she was up to something!

Following Tracey through the living room to their dining room at the back, John stopped dead in his tracks. The table was already more than a little set! Three place settings, fancy china, amber crackers and holly wreathes decorated a ruby table runner. Golden sequins were lovingly spread about the long wooden table, interweaving throughout the endless plates of roast potatoes and Yorkshire puddings, steaming vegetables, and piping hot gravy.

John stopped dead in his tracks, again, breaking out into a sting of tears. For the first and only time that day, they were anything but bitter. _Damn hormones!_

Tracey returned moments later, displaying a beautifully cut and succulent joint. Her face immediately fell, placing the Turkey down before rushing to John’s side.

“What is it, John? What happened?”

Enveloping her in the tightest of tight hugs, John was ever so happy to have her there. She and Andy were exactly who he needed, who he loved, when he came undone.

“Nothin’, I mean it! Trace I…” he broke off, swiping his tears. “Nothing. I’m just so, you know, _happy!_ ” John pulled his face out of her shoulder, smiling the brightest of smiles that he had all year. So full of life, so full of spirit.

His eyes were dimmed red from his tears, a tiny bead of snot was begging to be wiped. With a striking smile, a hearty giggle, Tracey absolutely did not mind. Instead, she leant in, pressing a soft and completely out of character kiss to the bassist’s flaming cheek.

“There’s no need to thank me. Thank Andy for gettin’ me across so we could be with you.”

“An— holy crap, where did—”

“I’m right here, JT.” Andy waved, reappearing at his side. “Now, hush!”


	5. Chapter 5

“Oh my gosh, Andrew!” Andy was clutching their baby boy tight, who’s big beady eyes had zoned in on John. “Can… umm, Ands, can I _hold_ him?”

An ever so cheeky grin coated Andy’s bubbly face. He nodded, handing over his son. John couldn’t help but giggle like a schoolgirl, one hand on Andrew’s teeny baby grow, the other to support his head. John rocked their baby Wilson-Taylor softly, checking with Tracey that he was doing it right. Her bright smile, glistening eyes, told John exactly what he needed to know.

She began to dish out their Christmas dinner, Andy at his wife’s side. John carefully took a seat, babbling back to Andrew who was simply staring at him. Teeny lips cocking up into the smallest and most precious of smiles.

“Hi, hi _baby_.” John began, sniffling. “I’m your, your uh,” he broke off, sending a heavy glance Andy’s way. He nodded, before placing John’s dinner plate, overflowing with goodness. “Your uncle Johnny!”

“Uncle _Tigger_.” Andy corrected, with a wink.

The two Wilson-Taylors gave John a moment in peace, the bassist could feel both sets of soft gazes on him. He felt ever so warm, so loved. Little Andrew was beginning to drift off, teeny fingertips clawing out at John. He chuckled, leaning down so his auburn curls were falling before his face. Andrew immediately grabbed them, holding on tight.

“Look at that, Trace.” Andy began, with a whisper. “He’s good with kids after all.”

John flushed, turning back to face the happy couple before him. “Oh, gosh. No!”

“Yes, _Tigger_. Just you wait.”

John’s brows shot up, Andy was smirking again. That damn know it all smirk.

“John, let me put him down. Please, start eatin’, don’t let it get cold!”

Nodding, John ever so carefully handed Tracey her son back. He watched her sashay away, before turning back to his guitarist.

Who grumbled: “Stop checkin’ out her arse, John!”

“I’m sorry!”

Andy waved him off with a chuckle, presenting him with a Christmas cracker. The wrestling match was on, till the guitarist broke it and out poured the little awful Christmas joke and tissue paper crown.

With a chuckle, John unfolded his crown. Andy squinted as he unfolded the joke.

He winced, reciting it. “What did Adam say the night before Christmas?” John cocked a brow in silent questioning. “It’s Christmas, Eve… yikes.”

John barked out a single laugh. “Blimey! That was bad.”

Tracey returned, with two beers in hand. Placing one bottle down before Andy, laughing as her husband righted his own blue tissue paper crown, she motioned to John before sitting down. He was already tucking into their dinner, apparently his little Christmas miracle was suddenly very hungry!

Leonard also had a teeny, tiny place setting right next to John.

“JT? Do you want a drink?” She posed.

John’s gaze widened comically, eyes fleeting to the frosty, delightfully frosted, and cool beer she held.

_No, goddamnit. You don’t need a drink._

“Erm, Trace?” John began, seemingly unable to quite take his eyes off from the bottle she held.

“Woah, babe! I forgot, you dunno!” Andy barked, taking the drink from her. “Tigger ain’t drinking.”

Her brows raised comically fast, with her disbelief sure to show. Then, unaware of what he was doing and what the repercussions could be, the bassist simply rose to standing. He was panting softly, suddenly short on breath.

“Tracey, ‘member those months back when I, you know, I… I came to the both of you with a little, erm, problem?” He stammered, fighting to keep his gaze on her bewildered own the whole time.

“ _Relationship_ problem. Yes?” She asked, hopeful.

“Well…” John simply looked down, yellow tissue paper crown falling over his eyes. With a giggle, he righted it. And then, he sent his bangle clad wrist forward to settle on his stomach, bulging over his tight leathers ever so slightly.

“You… John, you… Holy hell! Andy, you kept that from me?!”

John chuckled at the place of blame; Andy was quick to defend himself. “Hey! He only told me the other night in the studio, babe!”

Her smile was huge, infectious. Tracey was overjoyed, rushing to hug him. John felt those merry tears pricking at his eyes. Happy tears, they were _happy_ tears.  
  


“A toast to you, and your baby, Johnny!” Andy held up his bottle, so John and Tracey could both toast their _water_ glasses to him. John did, chuckling slightly before taking a hearty drink.

Dinner was divine. Tracey had thoroughly outdone herself and Andy sure as hell knew how to light a Christmas pud. Their night pressed on, with a slightly tipsy guitar hero belting out classic Christmas carols; to John and Tracey snuggling up tight atop of the velvet sofa. She was resting her head on his shoulder and his chocolate brown eyes were beginning to droop closed.

“Ands? Trace?” John murmured, feeling her stir beside him.

“Yeah, Johnny?” Andy began, taking a seat beside him.

“Thank you for makin’ my Christmas.”

Now, a filling between his favourite Wilson-Taylor sandwich, John could rest easy. His words flowed perfectly, thanking them over and over. He couldn’t believe them, keeping this a secret from him; knowing that neither could bear to see him alone and blue. John couldn’t help but thank them, their hard work, and desire to come up and see him. See him smile. He truly adored them both. Both had bought the Christmas cheer back into his life, having thoroughly made his holiday.

Andy hugged him in response, Tracey placed another small kiss to his cheek. John found himself, slumping on the sofa ever so fulfilled, to be drifting off again with his best friends at his side. His little Christmas miracle seemed content with their meal too, swirling joyfully within him.

In the haze of the afterglow, a haze between sleep and dreams, John was shaken out of it by the ring of the telephone. He chuckled to himself, a groggy guitarist trying to get up to answer.

“Allow me. You cuddle your wife!” He giggled, easing himself from Tracey’s clutch.

Andy did just that, kissing her good and proper. John left the two of them merrily blissed out to take the call in the other room. Glancing at his watch, he was surprised to find that it was only six. He could’ve sworn they’d eaten hours ago, hadn’t stopped laughing since.

Grabbing the phone, he rubbed at his eyes as he awaited the voice at the other end of the line. “Ello?”

His gaze broadened at hearing them. Their heavenly voice, rhythmical tones of hearty laughter. A Christmas carol or five, John couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing.

Though what he did know, during the entire phone call, he didn’t have to say a word. He had long since slumped down the wall, eyes cloudy with his tears. Tears of joy, elation, surprise that he hadn’t been forgotten.  
  


“I’ll see you soon for MTV’s New Years... yeah, can’t wait.” He sniffed; he was sure that they knew he had been crying throughout the whole call. “Pl- _please_ tape that _Pop Quiz_ special on the twenty-eighth for me.”

They bid him farewell, not without serenading John a final time. And his—their little miracle. John felt the warmth blossoming in his chest, he wouldn’t be taking off his paper crown any time soon.

“Merry Christmas to you too...” _Luv_.

Maybe he didn’t need any Prince Charming to save him from his ivory tower. _Andy Claus,_ a nickname the guitarist had gleefully suggested earlier in their festivities, had answered all his prayers.

“And Happy New Year, Wild Boy or Girl.” John breathed, feeling a warmth in his chest. “Here’s to ’85. As a… you know, a—”

  
Three chimes, they had a call from downstairs. They had a visitor.   
  


John straightened up comically, strolling past an equally confused guitarist en-route throughout the penthouse. Hastily, John fiddled with the latches on the door, brass handle almost slipping from him when—

“Fuckin’ hell!” John screeched, heart in his throat.

His gift even had a silver bow on their head. How ever so festive.

“Did you really think I’d leave you for Christmas? Whether you want me around or not?”

“How... h-how?? John stammered, knowing the blizzards had forced airports to close all day. “How are you, y’know, here?”

His present tapped their nose once: a secret. “Magic.”

John snorted. “Yeah, right.”

Finding that he really was able to hold that gaze, John stepped aside to let his present in. Heart beating rapid in his chest, the meat sweats from the Turkey coating his supple skin.

“Nice place you’ve got here, Johnny.”

He felt his heart begin to melt. He’s protected from the hooded claw, there really were no vampires at his door.

“Where’s Ands? I need to thank him for getting me across. Damn blizzard did _not_ make that easy!”

Maybe he knows to make love his goal.

“Sorry I must’ve missed dinner. Did you open the gifts already? No worries if you have, I have one more surprise for you Johnny.” 

The bassist squealed ever so slightly, his peanut was waltzing around within him ever so fast now. They were dancing the quickstep. Walking into the living room with his present following him, they hugged, and John watched with teary eyes.

“Make love your goal.” His present muttered, voice ever so perfect.

  
And in regard’s to his front man’s earlier question: Yes. Now, John really _does_ know it’s Christmastime.


End file.
